Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History Of A Dark Genius Part 1

CAPTAIN NEMO.

The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius.

By Kevin J. Anderson.

PROLOGUE.

Amiens, France February, 1873

Damp winter clung to northern France, but a fire warmed Jules Verne's writing study with sultry smoke, orange light, and dreams.

Verne had composed many of his best stories in this isolated tower room, where narrow latticed windows looked out upon the leaden Amiens sky. The bleak view reminded him of the polar wastelands in Captain Hatteras Captain Hatteras, or the Icelandic volcano in A Journey to the Centre of the Earth A Journey to the Centre of the Earth. Imagination had taken him to many places, both real and unreal.

Elms graced the flagstoned courtyard of the author's house on rue Charles-Dubois. Thick vines climbed the brick walls like ratlines on a sailing s.h.i.+p, such as the three-masted Coralie Coralie, on which a young and ambitious Jules had almost taken a voyage around the world.

Almost. At the last minute, Verne's stern father had s.n.a.t.c.hed him from that real-life adventure, then punished him for "boyhood foolishness." His friend Andre Nemo had gone on the voyage without him. "A world of adventure is waiting for us," Nemo always said. But he had done it all alone.

Though he was much older now, and wealthy, Verne promised himself he would go out and see exotic lands and have exciting adventures, just like Nemo. One day. One day.

At the age of 45, Jules Verne was a world-renowned writer, bursting with imaginative ideas. Persistent gray strands streaked his unruly reddish hair, and his long beard lent him a philosophical appearance. Often depicted in the French press, Verne had seen his fame grow with each successive novel. Lionized for his brilliant imagination, he was a man to whom the world turned for excitement.

And I deserve none of it.

His "inventiveness" was a sham. Nemo Nemo was the one who experienced all the real adventures, survived the trials, explored the unknown. Verne was merely an armchair adventurer, living a vicarious life through Nemo's exploits. was the one who experienced all the real adventures, survived the trials, explored the unknown. Verne was merely an armchair adventurer, living a vicarious life through Nemo's exploits.

No matter. Nemo didn't want the applause or the fame anyway.

In the tower study, Verne's maplewood shelves groaned with reference books, atlases, explorers' journals, newspaper clippings -- information compiled by others. He had no other way to achieve verisimilitude in his fiction. Verne had been everywhere on the planet, but only in his mind. It was safer that way, after all, and not so much of a bother.

Verne picked at the plate of strong camembert his quiet and frumpy wife had left him hours before. He smeared the soft cheese on a piece of brown bread and ate, chewing slowly, deep in thought.

Nemo had once said to him, "There are two types of men in this world, Jules -- those who do do things, and those who wish they did." things, and those who wish they did."

Oh, how Verne envied him . . . at least in a rhetorical way.

Ten years ago his first novel, Five Weeks in a Balloon Five Weeks in a Balloon, about a fantastic trip across unexplored Africa, had established him as a popular writer. Since then, his "Extraordinary Voyages" had made him a fortune.

Despite the fame, Verne found himself oddly jealous of his old friend Nemo, the experiences he'd had, the opportunities he'd seized. Nemo had loved and lost, had come close to death any number of times, had suffered tremendous hards.h.i.+ps, and triumphed. It seemed like such an exciting life, if one went in for that sort of thing. Nervous perspiration broke out on Verne's forehead just to think of it. What is it about the man? What is it about the man?

Verne had followed Five Weeks Five Weeks with with A Journey to the Centre of the Earth A Journey to the Centre of the Earth, which explored exotic regions underground, and then Captain Hatteras Captain Hatteras about a dramatic quest for the North Pole. Next came about a dramatic quest for the North Pole. Next came From the Earth to the Moon, The Children of Captain Grant From the Earth to the Moon, The Children of Captain Grant, and 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, all before the Franco-Prussian War had devastated the French countryside.

Ignoring the gray sleet and the skeletal elm branches outside his window, Verne added another length of wood to the fire. He closed the shutters, increasing the gloom in the study.

Downstairs, the family's big black dog barked, and his ten-year-old son Michel squealed. The rambunctious boy had an impish face, chestnut hair, and the soul of a demon. The dog barked again, and Michel shouted, chasing it around the house. Outside, when the regular train from Amiens to Paris clattered by, the engineer took malicious delight in tooting its whistle.

The clamor and disruption was enough to drive a man mad. Adventures Adventures enough for me enough for me, he thought.

The latest novel, Around the World in 80 Days Around the World in 80 Days, had taken him beyond success into genuine celebrity. Installments published in newspapers generated more excitement than actual news. Chapters were telegraphed around the globe; men made wagers as to whether the intrepid Phileas Fogg would succeed in his quest to circ.u.mnavigate the globe. Already, Verne had begun talks with a well-known playwright to create a stage production with real cannons and a live elephant. Very exciting.

Yet another idea he owed to Nemo's real-life exploits.

What is it about the man?

The popular favorite by far, however, remained the undersea adventure of the Nautilus Nautilus and its enigmatic captain who had isolated himself from humanity, a man who had declared war on War itself. To Verne's surprise, the dark and mysterious villain had captured the public's imagination. and its enigmatic captain who had isolated himself from humanity, a man who had declared war on War itself. To Verne's surprise, the dark and mysterious villain had captured the public's imagination. Nemo, Nemo, Nemo! Nemo, Nemo, Nemo! No one guessed the man was based on a real person.

Verne thought he'd ended Nemo's story by sinking the sub-marine boat in a maelstrom off Norway. His fictional version of Captain Nemo had perished in that vortex of waves, while the erstwhile Professor Aronnax, his manservant Conseil, and the harpooner Ned Land barely escaped with their lives.

Verne hadn't really believed Nemo would stay down, though -- not even after his literary death.

He pushed the tea and cheese away, then stared down at the thick ledger book in which he wrote his ma.n.u.script. This ma.s.sive new novel would be a challenge to his heart as well as to his storytelling abilities.

Verne had never intended to write about his friend again. He had begun this new novel, a s.h.i.+pwreck story, back in 1870 during the horrors of the Prussian war. Buildings had burned; desperate citizens had eaten zoo animals and sewer rats just to stay alive; and in the midst of that turmoil Verne had lost his beloved Caroline forever.

But now, two years later, the world had returned to order. The trains ran on schedule, and once more Verne was expected to release his "Extraordinary Voyages" like clockwork.

He hated to reopen old wounds, but he would force himself to tell the rest of Nemo's story. He knew the real Andre Nemo better than any man alive, the pa.s.sions that drove him, the ordeals he faced. Future generations would remember Nemo's life the way Verne Verne chose to portray it, rather than what had actually happened. He would concoct a fitting background for the dark captain. The "truth" posed no undue restrictions -- Monsieur Verne was a chose to portray it, rather than what had actually happened. He would concoct a fitting background for the dark captain. The "truth" posed no undue restrictions -- Monsieur Verne was a fiction fiction writer, after all. writer, after all.

He opened a fresh inkwell and dipped the sharp nib of his pen, then scratched the blackened tip across the paper. Beginning a new story, a long story: The Mysterious Island The Mysterious Island.

Perhaps he could finally lay Captain Nemo to rest and then live his own life, seek out his own adventures. One of these days. . .

What is it about the man?

The words began to flow, as they always did.

Part I

EXTRAORDINARY VOYAGES.

i.

Ile Feydeau, Nantes, France July, 1840

In their younger years, Jules Verne and Andre Nemo were the best of friends.

Walking together on damp ground that sloped down to the Loire's edge, they each ate a sweet banana from one of the trading clippers just arrived from the East Indies. Thick white c.u.mulus clouds hung like unexplored islands in the sun-washed sky.

"By the quays, Jules," Nemo said, leading the way. "I want to be close to the s.h.i.+ps when I submerge myself." With his new apparatus, Nemo was certain that he could walk and breathe underwater underwater. And Verne actually believed him.

Growing up near one of France's largest s.h.i.+pyards, both of them had an abiding love for the sea. Sailors from Batz unloaded a cargo of salt onto the quay. The fish market, its air thick with the stench of day-old catch, sweltered under the humid July sun. The fishwives teased each other in loud voices, using colorful language that would have brought a blush to the cheeks of Verne's strict father, a local lawyer.

Even forty miles inland, the broad Loire was sluggish as it drained toward the Atlantic. A century earlier, through dredgings and diversions, engineers had created an artificial island, Ile Feydeau, separated by a shallow ca.n.a.l on one side and the deep river channel on the other. The swollen waters of annual spring floods still found the first floors of the row houses, and many families kept small boats tied up in the courtyards.

Ile Feydeau was shaped like a boat, and Verne and Nemo often pretended the entire island would detach and float down the river -- village and all -- to the coast. From there, they could drift across the Atlantic and explore the world. . . .

Now, they made their way past the barrels, crates, and lumber piles to where they had stowed their equipment. Walking underwater. Walking underwater. Verne found Nemo's plan incredible -- but his fiery-eyed and determined friend might succeed where no one else could. The dark-haired young man did not believe in the impossible.

Preparing for the underwater experiment, Nemo carried his equipment over one shoulder. Verne hurried after him with the remaining items. Soon they'd find out whether the invention would work. Verne planned to write a chronicle of their underwater adventures, provided the two of them ever went anyplace more interesting than the Loire River.

Half a century before, Nantes had built up an enviable prosperity from the "ebony trade," s.h.i.+pping slaves from Africa to the West Indies. Merchants used the money raised in the Caribbean to buy sugar cane, which they brought back to France and resold at a high profit. Since the decline of the slave trade, Nantes had faded as a major port. When local sugar beets replaced expensive imported cane, the city became dependent on its s.h.i.+pbuilding industry. The s.h.i.+pyard forest held frameworks and drydocks for packet s.h.i.+ps, clippers, schooners.

A nearly completed vessel floated in the deep channel just ahead of them, a s.h.i.+p named the Cynthia. Cynthia. In the hot afternoon, men chanted as they swung heavy mallets, pounding deckboards together, hammering iron eyes. Pulleys rattled as thick ropes were hauled up to the tops of the three masts. On deck, cauldrons of bubbling tar gave off a harsh chemical stench that drove back the aroma of old fish. Painters covered the outer hull with traditional black, then added a sleek white stripe from bow to stern.

Nemo shaded his eyes, trying to make out a familiar silhouette among the workers. His father Jacques worked as a carpenter and finisher aboard the Cynthia Cynthia. The wiry, good-natured man had been a seaman in his early years and now used his expertise in constructing the tall s.h.i.+ps. Verne and Nemo often listened to Jacques telling tales of his glorious days at sea.

It seemed strange that the son of a conservative lawyer would be good friends with the child of a widowed s.h.i.+pbuilder, but the two shared a fascination for far-off lands and the mysteries of the Earth. They had the same favorite books: Defoe's Robinson Crusoe Robinson Crusoe and Wyss's and Wyss's Swiss Family Robinson Swiss Family Robinson, which they collectively called their "Robinsons."

Though both were dreamers, the young men were different in appearance and temperament. Verne had blue eyes and tousled reddish hair, freckles on his pale skin, and a plodding sort of persistence; Nemo had deep brown eyes that held an undeniable spark of optimism. Corsican blood from his long-dead mother had given him an olive complexion, straight dark hair, and an independent spirit.

Reaching the selected docks, they dropped their bundles in the mud beside the thick pilings. Nemo removed a flexible bladder that had once been a wine skin. He had altered it by inserting a wide reed through a hole and sewing a narrow rectangle of thick gla.s.s fas.h.i.+oned from a broken pane. Near the mouth area he had added a one-way flap valve so he could exhale his used air. After the modifications, he had closed the skin with tight little st.i.tches covered in gutta percha for a watertight seal.

Helping him, Verne fiddled with the tube that protruded from the bladder hood. Taking reeds, he and Nemo had dunked their heads under the Loire, wading around like the clever American Indians in the adventures by James Fenimore Cooper. But this experiment was much more complex.

Nemo paused in his preparations and extended the modified bladder helmet toward Verne. "We are in this together, my friend. You have as much right to be first as I do. Here."

Verne backed away, shaking his head. "I wouldn't dream of it, Andre. I'll just stay here and help feed the tubes. You . . . you try it first."

Not surprised, Nemo strapped a belt of heavy stones around his waist, then thrust a dagger into the sheath at his hip. In an emergency he could cut the weights free and rise to the surface.

Nemo tugged the bladder over his dark hair until he could see through the rectangle of gla.s.s. The flexible sides fit tight against his ears and temples, and it smelled of sour wine. He slathered his neck and the edge of the bladder with thick grease, then cinched a leather belt to seal the helmet against his skin to prevent air loss, though not so tight that it would strangle him. He knew this was risky -- but he refused to hold back with such an opportunity at hand.

Nemo adjusted the breathing reed and the exhale flap. When he tried to speak, the bladder m.u.f.fled his words, so he turned to meet Verne's eyes through the viewing plate. Verne clasped his friend's hand and wished him good luck, as if he were a businessman about to embark on a journey.

Verne uncovered a pot of sun-warmed pitch and arranged the hollow reeds on the ground beside him. With quick hands, he dipped one end into the pitch and inserted it into the tube protruding from Nemo's helmet, thereby extending the air line.

Nemo stepped into the water, moving slowly so as not to break the connection. Verne picked up a third reed, smeared the seam with pitch, and sealed it to the second segment. Nemo sank waist-deep and kept going until his shoulders disappeared beneath the greenish-brown river.

Just as his covered head entered the water, he took a careful breath, then exhaled through the exhaust valve. Everything seemed to be working. With one more step, he was submerged, walking along the silty riverbottom.

Verne attached reed after reed, careful to keep the pipes clear, feeling a tremendous responsibility. The line of joined reeds disappeared under the water like a long straw. He could see Nemo making his way toward the Cynthia Cynthia's construction quay, and envied him -- but only in a theoretical sense. He was glad to be safe and dry on sh.o.r.e.

Taking a break now that he was several reeds ahead of Nemo, Verne looked around to see if anyone had noticed what they were doing. Steep terraced gardens made a splash of green and wildflower colors by the facade of the Church of St. Martin. Seagulls spun overhead, dove down to s.n.a.t.c.h garbage from the water, and splattered bridges and rooftops with gray-white runnels. He kept an eye c.o.c.ked to make sure the vindictive birds didn't target him.

Then he saw a straight-backed young woman with strawberry-blonde hair tucked under a wide-brimmed hat. She walked along the cobblestone path above the riverbank, coming toward him. Her afternoon dress was blue moire silk with a high-waisted bodice, trimmed with row upon row of white fringe, bows, and roses to conceal the restrictive stays beneath. Her leg-o-mutton sleeves looked long and hot in the bright river suns.h.i.+ne. She wore the dress as if it were an unpleasant uniform.

Startled to see her, Verne dropped the sticky end of a reed into the dirt, then spluttered at the clumsy mess he had made. When Caroline Aronnax approached, he wanted to look impressive and das.h.i.+ng, not like a clod.

But he had already caught her eye, and he blushed crimson. Caroline shaded her eyes and called, "Jules Verne, what are you doing down there?"

With a glance to ensure that no one of sufficient social station was watching her, she hopped off the cobblestone path, lifted her ankle-length skirt, and hurried across the mud to join him by the dock pilings. Even fine clothes could not disguise her tomboy nature or her fascination with all manner of things that her exasperated mother considered "unseemly for a young lady."

"Up to something interesting, I hope? It is not often I see you without Andre. Where is he?"

Verne swallowed hard. As always, Caroline caused the words to catch in his throat. In her presence, his sharp wit and intelligence faded into a confusion of stutters. "He . . . I . . . Andre's there there." He pointed to the line of reeds. "He's exploring under the water. I'm in charge of keeping his air-line clear. It's a very important job."

Caroline bent down, careful not to muddy her dress, and looked into the Loire in amazement. Verne focused his attention on her pointed nose and her slender neck. In an impa.s.sioned love letter he'd once written, Verne had described her hair as "honey caught on fire," but, as with so many things, he'd never found the nerve to send her the letter -- though she could not be blind to his attraction. Or Nemo's.

Caroline's eyes were cornflower blue, and her skin, though fair, was vibrant instead of the pale and translucent valued by French high-society. Madame Aronnax constantly scolded her daughter and tried to reign in her outgoing ways.

Caroline's father was a wealthy merchant, one of the last to make a fortune in the sugar cane trade of the West Indies. Of late, he had become an importer of rum and North American rice, as well as exotic cargoes from Asia and the East Indies. Monsieur Aronnax adored his daughter and had taught her how to read maps and charts, told her about places visited by his s.h.i.+pping fleet, and discussed how the tea crop in Ceylon might affect the prices of cow hides from California. Her mother, though, could not understand what Caroline would ever do with such useless knowledge, and hired a music tutor for her instead.

She learned to play the harpsichord and the pianoforte, and became proficient in the works of Bach, Handel, and Mozart. But when she was alone, Caroline composed her own fugues and concertos, delighting in the creative process. When asked, she credited the original compositions to a mythical 18th century French composer named "Pa.s.separtout," since Mme. Aronnax would have been horrified to learn of her daughter's ambitions.

Caroline also dabbled in art to keep her mother happy, sketching the s.h.i.+pyards or still-lifes of fruit and flowers (as well as secret drawings of distant ports and strange creatures described by men from her father's merchant s.h.i.+ps).

Both Verne and Nemo were infatuated with Caroline, and both did everything possible to impress her. Andre Nemo was the free-spirited son of a widowed s.h.i.+pbuilder, and Jules Verne was the oldest child of an established but dull country lawyer. Neither had a chance to win her hand, if Madame Aronnax had any say in the matter.

"How long has Andre been down there?" Caroline shaded her eyes against the sunlight and looked ready to wade in after Nemo. Verne realized that he'd better add another reed, or his friend would drag the end of the breathing tube underwater.

"I don't know, my -- my lovely lady." Verne stumbled over his words even as he tried to be as debonair as the heroes in dramas he had seen in the Nantes playhouse. "When you come near me, all time seems to stop."

Caroline endured the flattery with patient grace. "Then perhaps you had better consult your pocket watch." She raised her eyebrows and indicated the end of the breathing reed, which tottered close to being submerged.

Embarra.s.sed, Verne splashed into the water to seal on the next tube, getting sticky gum on his fingers.

Caroline knew full well that she'd captivated the hearts of both young men. As she stood beside Verne, watching the breathing tubes disappear beneath the river, a smile emerged at the corners of her graceful mouth. Seeing Nemo's preposterous scheme of walking beneath the water, she said, "It is wonderful to see impossible dreams come to fruition."

Verne nodded as he stood up to his ankles in the water. "Andre never believes it when people tell him about difficulties. He makes up his own mind and does things as he sees fit."

"And I admire him for it."

While he chattered about plans he and Nemo had made for exploring the hidden undersea world, Verne couldn't help but see that she was more interested in what Nemo was doing than in the fictional stories he made up.

Looking across the water, Caroline said, "I doubt this is the last impossible task he will undertake for himself."